


The Adventure Of The Smith-Mortimer Succession

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [66]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Inheritance, Invisibility, Justice, Lemon, M/M, Secret Messages, Servants, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-21 16:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15562188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A chancer tries to deprive a relative of his inheritance – but he has reckoned without Sherlock who rides to the rescue with the help of some lemon juice, a mirror and a shopping-list.





	The Adventure Of The Smith-Mortimer Succession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [otala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/otala/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

It was one of my brother Mycroft's many, many failings that, unlike both Sherlock and myself, he would take out his frustrations on others (Kean has just made a most improper suggestion that he might take out his frustrations on me soon enough, as a result of which this will now be a somewhat shorter introduction than intended!). After the case of ex-president Murillo, Mycroft confronted Sherlock over the missing papers and openly called him a liar for not producing them. The result was twofold; Sherlock refused to assist him for the rest of that year and Watson persuaded his friend to take a walking holiday in Lancashire to take advantage of some excellent autumn weather.

Where of course they ran straight into another case!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

I had enjoyed my time in Essex (the case of ex-president Murillo) but our return to London led to problems when Holmes' brother Mycroft came round. He was not only quite rude but even went so far as to accuse Holmes of deliberately secreting the papers somewhere for his own ends. I had always considered that my friend was far too tolerant of his brother's behaviour prior to this, but clearly something snapped in him and Mycroft was asked to leave. The fact that Holmes was loading his gun at the time was, I suspect, an incitement to make it a rather hasty departure.

As I have said elsewhere, Holmes maintained an often inexplicable fondness for the mess that was London Town, being reluctant to leave it except for very important cases. However his brother's ingratitude seemed to have upset him more than I might have expected, and he asked me if I could recommend somewhere for a short stay in the country. It was a benign autumn that year, so I was inclined to suggest a place I knew in the Pennines where I had family. Sort of. 

My maternal aunt Mrs. Janet Clevedon had married an American businessman and had left for his house just outside the village of Portsmouth on the Pennines, not long after I myself had departed Northumberland. The two of them had lived happily together for some years whilst he had travelled frequently across the wide ocean before he had died in 'Ninety-One. Mr. Charlton Clevedon's brother Chester had brought his body back to England, and with his home-town of Grand Rapids suffering from both food shortages and the general economic depression had decided to stay, using his money to set himself and his sister-in-law up at a guest-house (a good quality one that was recommended in “Bradshaw”, even if the name “Chester's” was, they observed' 'rather too American'). It had seemed an odd choice of place for such an establishment but had proven to be a most excellent one; with the Victorian passion for hill-walking “Chester's” was nearly always full. Mr. Chester Clevedon was a gruff middle-aged gentleman, who looked as if smiling was something that only afflicted other less fortunate people. 

To clarify the 'border confusion' over which several of my readers questioned me when this story was originally published, the village of Portsmouth had been in Lancashire until the 1888 Local Government Act. As well as removing most of the exclaves around the generally untidy English county borders, this act shifted the village into the West Riding of Yorkshire, as a string of housing connected it with the town of Todmorden in that county. “Chester's” however was still in Lancashire; oddly the railway station (which had also 'moved') continued to be called Portsmouth (Lancs.). Only the sound of trains chuffing between Todmorden (which I particularly liked) and Burnley (rather less so), reminded us that we were still connected to the rest of civilization.

That and, almost predictably, another case.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It was morning in the Clevedon household, in the penultimate week of our stay there. I had been reading about the tenth anniversary celebrations for a shop over in Leeds called Marks and Spencer when I became aware that Mr. Clevedon was frowning over a letter that he had received in the morning post.

“Is something wrong?” I asked courteously.

“Your friend’s stay here may be Providence”, he muttered. “It looks like I might need his services for myself.”

He would say no more, but I guessed that he had approached Holmes in private not long after we had finished eating. I felt more than a little warm when a maid called at my room, saying that my friend was asking for me. Mr. Clevedon looked more than a little annoyed at my arrival which I took to mean he had unsuccessfully objected to my presence. I took out my notebook and waited.

“The doctor documents _all_ my cases”, Holmes said pointedly. “Without exception, whomsoever the client may be. Your secrets are safe in his hands, sir.”

My bearded almost-relative looked uncertain, but went forward with his tale.

“Gentlemen”, he said, “some years after I settled here, I made what I had planned to be one last trip across the Atlantic. Bearing in mind the tendency of my own countrymen to reach for a gun at any opportunity, it was somewhat ironic that I had my most dramatic moment upon my return to these shores. Right there on the quayside at Liverpool I found a man abusing his wife most sorely. Words were exchanged between us, there was a scuffle and he tried to fire a gun at me, but only succeeded in shooting himself. He died soon after; mercifully the county police were excellent and after a short investigation I was cleared of any wrongdoing. Except that, to my shock, the lady declared herself attached to me, of all people!”

He sounded quite indignant at that. I suppressed a smile.

“Howsoever”, he went on, “the lady proved quite charming, and eventually I agreed to accept her hand in marriage. Her name was Miss Gwendolyn Turner and she haled from Rowsley in the county of Derbyshire. The only slight mar to our happiness was that she had told me, very fairly before I took her hand, that she could never have children. This had been something of a blow, but I made it quite clear that whilst I might hope at some future time to add one boy and one girl unto our family, I would totally respect her wishes as regards adoption, whether those be to decline or to delay. To my joy she wanted to have a boy, and the procedures were in motion when she was tragically taken from us during an outbreak of whooping-cough barely a year after I had married her. Her last request was that I care for the boy that we had so nearly acquired together, and I swore on the Good Book so to do.”

“The boy’s name was Master Roger Bennet, and since I have an honest assessment of my own parenting skills which prevented me subjecting him to them, I strove to obtain a set of parents for him in lieu of myself and poor Gwen. Joseph and Irene Smith-Mortimer were an excellent couple and he grew up well with them, adopting their name and recently attaining his twelfth birthday. He is a fine boy and I have placed a sum of money in the bank for him each Christmas and birthday, to be presented to him on his coming of age. Needless to say he is as yet unaware of my existence; he will be so informed on his twenty-first birthday.”

“You may have read of the department store fire in Manchester last month. I only learnt this morning that the boy’s parents were amongst the victims. That would have been bad enough, but just days before that calamity and unbeknownst to me, Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s father Evelyn had died and had bequeathed his considerable estate to his son. That estate should of course now pass to the boy, but his title is being contested by a relative who claims that as the boy is adopted he cannot inherit.”

“That would depend on the precise wording of the late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer’s will”, Holmes said. “Unless it pointedly excluded adopted children, there would not be a bar.”

Mr. Clevedon sighed heavily.

“Regretfully the man doing the contesting is Mr. Jaxon Barnier, a scoundrel of the first order”, he said. “And worst of all, a scoundrel with deep pockets. I am trying to help the boy, but I cannot match his financial fire-power. I may have to yield simply because of the lawyers’ fees.”

“Ah”, said, Holmes, “but you do have one advantage that the Mr. has not.”

Mr. Clevedon looked puzzled.

“What is that, sir?” he asked.

“Why, the services of London’s best consulting detective, of course!” Holmes exclaimed. 

“If not the most modest!” I added, rather more loudly that I had intended. I blushed at my forthrightness, although Mr. Clevedon chuckled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We were once again not that far from Brontë Country, to which I had been lucky enough to visit during our case in Arnsworth Castle some five years past. We called in to Keighley and managed to find Mr. Neil Stephenson, who as Holmes had told me had found the wealth bequeathed to him by his father and had married his lady from Settle. He was now the proud father of two young boys with a third on the way, and thanked us again for all our efforts. The castle he had sold to the town for a nominal fee, and his place in the country was most pleasant.

Holmes had also arranged for a stop in Haworth, and our carriage later took us to the ruins at Top Withens, supposedly the inspiration for Wuthering Heights, though we had to walk some way to see it. The weather was bitterly cold but I enjoyed revisiting the area, and was glad that Holmes could have some time away from his annoying brother. He definitely looked the better for it.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day we had an appointment with Mr. Noah Bradstreet, the lawyer in charge of administering the Smith-Mortimer family estate. We all sat down and he explained the legal situation to us in about four times as many words as were actually needed. Lawyers!

Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer had, in his final year, suffered from a debilitating illness which, most unhappily, had led to him falling into the clutches of his nephew Mr. Jaxon Barnier, who had moved into the Smith-Mortimer family home and ensconced himself there. The man was the son of Mr. Smith-Mortimer's sister Eustasia, and the next in line to inherit after his son Joseph, and adopted grandson Roger. Mr. Bradstreet had represented several times to his client the importance of clearing up the wording of the estate’s conditions of inheritance but Mr. Barnier himself had always pooh-poohed the idea, stating that only a fool would try to disinherit the boy. Once the old man had passed, however, he proved himself no fool, for he had immediately lodged his own claim. Even before the funeral, the lawyer spluttered indignantly.

The problem was that Mr. Barnier’s control of his uncle’s household during his last few weeks had been Draconian. Nothing and no-one had been allowed to come in and out, and even his lawyer had been prevented from seeing him. Mr. Bradstreet was all but certain that it had been Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s intention to leave a new will clarifying matters, but his nephew had prevented him from so doing. It once again reminded me of the Arnsworth Castle case again and the dreadful Huffington-Brands who, in that instance, had been outwitted by their elderly relative (we had not for some strange reason called in on their 'hovel' the day before!).

We left the offices and adjourned to a nearby restaurant for luncheon. Mr. Clevedon was clearly depressed at the morning’s events.

“If I am to make anything of this case”, Holmes said, “I will need to speak with the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer’s servants. My intuition tells me that they hold the key to this matter.”

Mr. Clevedon nodded and took out a piece of paper which he handed across to Holmes. 

“The first three are the ones worth pursuing”, he said. “They were all fond of their late master by all accounts, and were all dismissed upon his death. The fourth, Mr. John Wishaw, was kept on because he chose to assist Mr. Barnier in his ambitions.”

“Ambitions that we must endeavour to thwart”, Holmes said. “The cook, the maid, the butler. We shall start with the heart of the home, the kitchen, and visit Mrs. Olivia Damson.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The late Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer had lived in Leyland, a small town in central Lancashire near the town of Preston. Fortunately however two of the staff recommended to us by Mr. Clevedon had both moved to Manchester in pursuit of work after his death, which meant that we could visit them on the same day. After spending what seemed like an eternity assuring Mrs. Damson’s employer Mrs. Featherstone that her cook was _not_ a hardened criminal or a secret axe-murderer, the three of us were allowed to descend to talk to her. Holmes had wisely refrained from telling the lady that we were pursuing a murder investigation or we would never have got past her!

Mrs. Olivia Damson was supervising the cooking of something that smelled heavenly. She took us into a small side-room and sat calmly waiting for our questions.

“This concerns your late employer, Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer”, Holmes began. “In particular, his relationship with his nephew Mr. Jaxon Barnier.”

Mrs. Damson’s expression changed abruptly, looking like she had just stepped in something unpleasant.

“That 'person'!” she said scornfully. “Mr. Smith-Mortimer was a wonderful man, but something rotten got into the branch of the family tree that produced _him_. A Thoroughly Bad Lot.”

She enunciated the capitals quite clearly. I smiled at her firmness.

“Mrs. Damson”, Holmes said, “although you may not have had any direct dealings with Mr. Smith-Mortimer you are quite clearly a most observant lady. I would welcome any observations that you may have had on the last few months of your late employer’s life. In particular, anything that struck you as out of the ordinary.”

She thought for a moment.

“I am sure such gentlemen as yourself know the way the land lay as regards dear Mr. Smith-Mortimer and that rapscallion of a nephew of his”, she said. “As the cook I saw little, but there was one strange thing which concerned his food. Though I do not see how it could help you at all.”

“Yet clearly you noticed it”, Holmes smiled. “What was it?”

She looked embarrassed, before saying rather quietly, “the ketchup.”

“Pardon?” I asked. She reddened slightly.

“Mr. Smith-Mortimer always loved his that horrible brown ketchup, especially on fish and chips”, she said, looking as if she expected us to pour scorn on her suggestion. “Vile stuff! The shop sent a bottle of some other brand once and he absolutely hated it! Yet four weeks before the end, he suddenly went off it.”

“May I ask, did he have anything else instead?” Holmes asked. 

“He had a slice of lemon for a couple of weeks, then he tried some red sauce with herbs in it. He passed away before he could change his mind again.”

“Mrs. Damson”, Holmes said with a smile, “thank you very much. That is exactly what I had hoped that you would say. You have been most helpful, and if I am able to bring this case to a successful conclusion I shall communicate that fact to you at this address.”

We bowed ourselves away from the cook. Once we were on our way to our next destination I asked Holmes what he had meant.

“Think”, he said. “We know that Mr. Smith-Mortimer was virtually a prisoner in his own home in his last few weeks. I fully expected him to evince a sudden taste for lemon-flavoured fish.”

He looked at us both as if it were obvious, which I found annoying because it most definitely was not!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Our second call of the day was to Miss Anne Bayley, maid to the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer. Her new post was working for an agency which organized the cleaning of certain businesses in the town and it was our good fortune that it was her half-day, so we were able to catch her at home. Her parents were a little alarmed at our arrival but all was soon explained, although Miss Bayley shyly asked if they could remain for the interview to which request Holmes acceded.

“I would like to know more about your late employer, Mr. Smith-Mortimer”, Holmes said. “In particular, what sort of person was he? Did he socialize much, perhaps?”

She looked surprised at that.

“Goodness me, no, sir”, she said firmly. “The only person he used to see at all apart from family was that nice Mr. Benezet who lived across the hill.”

I looked up at the curious expression. Miss Bayley explained.

“My master's house, “Azkaban”, is on a hill some way back from the road”, she explained “The area is quiet enough, and the only other house you can see from its windows is “Lilyhurst”, Mr. Benezet’s place, which is on its own small hill opposite. There are trees along the side so you can't see the neighbours' houses, even though they are nearer. He was a very nice man Mr. Benezet; lived there with a friend of his, a Mr. Earl. Both real gentlemen so it was all quite proper.”

For some reason I thought of Holmes' brother Sherrinford and his own 'gentleman co-habiter' Mr. Sorbeaux. Possibly not that 'proper'?

“I presume such contact stopped once Mr. Barnier arrived on the scene”, Holmes asked politely.

The maid had much the same look as her fellow servant had had a few hours before, as if scenting something unpleasant.

“That horrible man!” she said bitterly. “He made a most improper suggestion as to how I might keep my post, and poor Mr. Smith-Mortimer not even cold upstairs time. I told him exactly where he could shove it, if you’ll pardon my French.”

I liked the girl’s spirit.

“I had the good fortune to speak with Mrs. Damson earlier today”, Holmes said. “She is doing well in her new post. I would like to ask you much the same question that I asked her. Did your employer do anything unusual or even slightly out of the ordinary, during the time Mr. Barnier was there?”

She frowned in memory.

“Well, he moved”, she said. “I thought that a bit odd.”

“Moved?” Holmes asked. She nodded.

“His bedroom was at the back of the house”, she said. “Very nice it was, overlooking the gardens and all, lovely warm room with a balcony. But he wanted to be moved to the front, right up the East Tower.” 

She saw our confusion and smiled. 

“The place was built like an old-style castle, and there was this round bit at each of the two front corners”, she said. “The master moved into the top floor of one of them – the left as you might look at it from the street - and we had to hoist his bed in there and set it up right by the window. He said his doctor told him that he needed lots of light for his skin.”

That was possible, I thought. Some skin complaints responded well to large doses of sunlight.

“I personally thought that it was because he wanted to know if his nephew was coming, myself”, she sniffed. “A good view of the path up to the front door, and the stairs leading up creaked something awful so there was no way he could drop in without his knowing. But Mr. Barnier hardly ever went up there. He just checked us all in and out and made sure we weren't smuggling out messages or anything. He was horrid!”

Holmes was about to thank her and leave when she suddenly spoke up again.

“Oh and there was the mirror.”

“What about the mirror?” Holmes asked.

“He broke a mirror that was hanging on the wall of his new room”, she said. “Seven years bad luck I remember thinking, though the poor man didn't have seven weeks left. I leant him one of mine, a small hand-held thing that came with a stand.”

“Thank you, madam”, Holmes said. “You have been _most_ helpful. We shall not impinge on your goodwill any longer, and I promise that I shall communicate any findings I have to you at this address.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

On the way back to our lodgings Holmes asked Mr. Clevedon where Mr. Barnier was now.

“Still at “Azkaban” most likely”, he said morosely. “Probably sold off half the contents by now. Poor Roger. Is there any hope do you think?”

“It all depends on the butler Weston”, Holmes said. “I see that he is with his master in London just now, so we shall see him immediately on our return there. We shall communicate our findings to you at “Chester's”, if that is acceptable?”

“Chester's”, I thought. Honestly!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We duly returned to Baker Street the following week. We were fortunate to be able to obtain a meeting with the butler at once, and he came to Baker Street that evening. Mr. Percy Weston was about forty years of age, debonair and assured as only a good English butler can be. His expression on the mention of his late employer's nephew was one of utter disdain.

“First, I want to reassure you that everything you say within these walls will remain confidential”, Holmes said. “I already know a great deal about what happened at “Azkaban”, but I need you to fill in several gaps in that knowledge. I know that at some point in his last few weeks the late Mr. Smith-Mortimer gave you a list. What was it about, please?”

The look on the butler's face was verging on the startled at Holmes' apparent omniscience. He hesitated before speaking.

“Mr. Smith-Mortimer wanted to borrow a book to the library”, he said, “and to pick up three items from the grocery store.”

“A list for just three items?” I asked dubiously.

“My master had reserved a certain book”, the butler said, “and noted down the title so that I could be sure that it was the right one.”

“Do you remember the book title?” Holmes asked. The butler shook his head.

“It was something to do with Greek history, sir. I am afraid that is all I remember.”

“Why did he not send a maid?” Holmes asked. The butler reddened.

“Mr. Barnier insisted on searching anyone who left the building carrying anything, sir”, he said loftily. “Miss Bayley told him that if he laid one hand on her then she would scream and fetch the police, so he sent her back downstairs. I offered to go in her place.”

“Do you remember the items on the list?” Holmes asked. 

“Perfectly, sir. Five red apples, two tins of custard powder and a bottle of Worcestershire sauce.”

“You went to the grocery store first, and then onto the library?”

The butler seemed to hesitate for some reason.

“Yes, sir”, he said.

“Did you meet anyone at either place?” Holmes asked.

“I saw Mrs. Funnel from “Little Giddings” at the store, sir.”

Holmes sat back and looked at our visitor. There was a pointed silence, then my friend smiled a slow smile.

“You are a good and faithful servant”, he said. “You have not told me several things, but I know all, now. Do not worry. All will be resolved, possibly even by the end of today, and if you leave me your master's address I shall communicate developments to you there.”

The butler looked distinctly unsettled but nodded. 

“Thank you, sir”, he said.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“My only regret”, Holmes said later as he pulled out the extension to our table, “is that I am unable to confront that scoundrel of a nephew over his actions. Though he will learn of the failure of his schemes soon enough.”

I would have asked about that, but I was interrupted by a knock at the door. There were three men outside, of whom I recognized only the lawyer Mr. Bradstreet. I invited them in and soon we were all seated around the table. Rather oddly considering that it was mid-afternoon Holmes had lit the large table-lamp.

“Now”, he said, “we are gathered here today to hear the reading of a will, specifically the last will and testament of Mr. Evelyn Smith-Mortimer. Mr. Benezet, Mr. Earl, thank you both for returning to England at such short notice. If you please?”

He held out his hand expectantly to the shorter of the two unknown men, who hesitated only briefly before pulling open the briefcase he was carrying and extracting a sheet of blue paper. Holmes took it and placed it before a clearly bewildered Mr. Bradstreet. It was, I could see from the writing, the note given to Mr. Weston for his great shopping trip.

“Sir, this is but a shopping-list!” the lawyer proclaimed. Holmes smiled.

“Gentlemen, let me tell you a story”, he said. “It concerns an elderly man who is dying and who has been unfortunate enough to have fallen into the clutches of a grasping nephew. The wording of his current will means that the nephew has a chance of claiming that estate from the rightful heir, the man's grandson, but said nephew also has an iron grip on the household, so there is no way that the dying man can do anything.”

“Or is there? He may be dying but this man is much cleverer than his unwanted watchdog gives him credit for. He hatches a most cunning and ingenious plan. First he persuades his doctor that he needs the light so that he can be moved to the front of the house. From the description that we had, we know that his new sleeping quarters were cramped, cold and exposed, far inferior to his own bedroom, yet he wanted to be there. Why? The answer is simple. From that room unlike his old one at the back of the house, he could see directly to the house of his friends across the road. And if he could see, he could also _signal.”_

I noticed how the two gentlemen had both gone red.

“He is very careful”, Holmes went on. “He knows that if he asks for a mirror, his nephew might come to suspect, so he breaks the mirror in the room and borrows a replacement – one he can hold, remember – from a maid. He monitors his nephew's movements so that he knows when he is inside the house, and uses those times to flash heliographic messages across the valley. Sure enough his friends spot the flashes, realize what is going on, and communication is established.”

“Time is short, and our man sends a message that, at a certain date in the near future, a piece of paper will be taken out of the house to a place where his friend and his friend's associate should be ready. But the man also knows that any paper removed from the house is checked. So what does he do next?” Holmes paused, and looked round at us all. “He changes his diet!”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Why?”

“It was the ketchup that gave me the clue”, Holmes said. “Or not so much the ketchup, but the lemon that replaced it. Our man knows that whatever he writes down will be checked by his nephew. So he silently saves the lemon slices, and from them he squeezes enough lemon juice to create a form of what is called evanescent ink. He is careful not to underestimate his nephew, knowing if he asks for a whole lemon from the kitchen, that too might rouse suspicions. ”

Holmes took the letter and held it against the lamp. Slowly, faint brown markings began to appear between the blue ink, and the lawyer leant forward in anticipation.

“I can tell you, Mr. Bradstreet”, Holmes said, “that this century has already seen one instance where a famous prankster wrote a final will in evanescent ink, and a judge decided that as it was clearly his intent and had been both signed and witnessed by people who knew of its contents, it was legal and enforceable. Ferrers versus Mobley, from 'Seventy-Two.”

“But the will was not witnessed!” I objected.

Holmes gestured to the two strangers. 

“Mr. Benezet and Mr. Earl knew to meet the butler in the library at a certain time on a certain date”, he said. “Weston did not tell us but he was smart enough to suspect his master's plan. He went along with it and obligingly handed the 'shopping list' to our friends here to witness, knowing that they would then keep it safe. Unfortunately business called them away to Ireland just before their friend passed on. I believe that Mr, Barnier had an inkling that they knew something or perhaps he was just making doubly sure, for they received at least two telegrams purporting to come from their friend saying that all was well. When I alerted them to the truth they rushed back at once.”

“He could not have hoped to get away with it”, I said.

“He could have stripped the estate bare whilst the confusion continued”, Holmes said. “I suspect that Mr. Clevedon was right over that, and that we will have to expend some effort to retrieve what he has stolen already.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Annoyingly if predictably Holmes turned out to be correct. Mr. Barnier had already enriched himself from the estate, but thanks to my friend we were able to claw back all his ill-gotten gains and young Roger Smith-Mortimer came into his full inheritance nine years later. The 'invisible will' also yielded small but welcome inheritances for the cook, the maid and the butler, and the manservant John Wishaw also got something - a book on how to be a better servant!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
